


scenes from a winter tournament

by cominginside



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Edmonton Oilers, M/M, Team Canada, World Juniors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-13
Updated: 2011-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:24:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cominginside/pseuds/cominginside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taylor is sitting in a room with the Oilers staff.</p><p>"You played with Jordan Eberle at World Juniors this year," one of them says.  "How did that work out for you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	scenes from a winter tournament

**Author's Note:**

> For pass_shoot_porn, with the prompt "you and I, we're two of a kind." I'm not 100% sure how this came out of that prompt, but it did. Beta'd by the lovely miss B. I wish I had shame.

Taylor is sitting in a room with the Oilers staff.

"You played with Jordan Eberle at World Juniors this year," one of them says. "How did that work out for you?"

* * *

Taylor almost can't believe it when he gets the call to represent Canada in Regina. He says yes, of course, and somehow refrains from jumping up and down and yelling with joy until he's off the phone.

After that, all bets are off.

* * *

"You nervous?" Ellis asks as they sit in the airport, waiting to board the plane to Saskatchewan.

Taylor shrugs. "Not really," he says. "A little, maybe. Mostly excited." He was more nervous waiting for the roster list--watching the other draft eligible guys go home during the selection camp, not getting a point during development camp, even with a penalty shot, knowing he was up against guys who'd been top draft picks for limited spots. In some ways, making it here was the hard part.

"Good," Ellis says, "because this is going to be awesome." He grins.

Taylor can't help but grin back.

* * *

He knows Regina and the Brandt Centre from the earlier camps, but they feel different now. Bigger, more important. It's starting to sink in that this is bigger than Ivan Hlinka had been, where only hockey people had really been paying attention to them. This is World Juniors. Canada's watching, and they're playing on home ice.

Still, when Taylor steps onto the ice for the first time it's with a thrill of excitement and anticipation. Nerves are for other people.

* * *

The locker room is a little weird at first, guys relearning each other's habits and fitting their superstitions and routines around each other. They form clumps--teammates stick together, if they have them, or people who've played together at past tournaments, or people from the same area. Anything to avoid feeling awkward and left out. Taylor's lucky; he's got three other Spitfires here, and he knows a lot of the guys from either playing against them or playing with them at the U18s. He's not one of the guys sitting quietly in the corner, waiting things out.

The Regina players are the most comfortable, joking and laughing and leading the rest of them around like lost ducklings. Of course, the comforts of home are balanced by the fact that they're the default team reps for the Regina media, who know them better than the rest of the guys, and the expectations of the home crowd.

* * *

Taylor expects to room with one of his Windsor teammates, but the coaches have decided that the best way to get the team chemistry going in the few days they have before things get serious is to force them to mingle as much as possible. He's so tired by the end of practice, jet lag and excitement wearing him down, that he doesn't care who he's sharing a room with as long as they let him sleep. It's still a nice surprised to have Jordan Eberle walk through the door, though. Taylor likes him, has liked him since they'd played together in Russia.

"Hey," he says, smiling and waving tiredly.

Eberle smiles back, gap between his front teeth visible, and Taylor hopes they can be friends.

* * *

They open against Latvia. Taylor hadn't been lying when he'd told Ellis that he wasn't really nervous. This is where he thrives, on the ice, and he's always been able to channel everything into the game--no nerves, just hits, just passes, just the feeling of his skates slicing through the ice and the joy of every goal scored, every hug and every fist bump and every yell of the crowd.

Hockey is where Taylor lives and he could never be scared there.

* * *

"Don't get too ahead of yourselves," coach says, but he doesn't try to tamp their joy and relief too much in the locker room. They're all giddy with it, laughing and yelling and chasing each other around with towels.

"Sixteen- _nothing_ ," Schenner says, dropping down next to Taylor and grinning. Taylor grins back, has been grinning since the final buzzer ran. His face aches with it.

"Sixteen-nothing," he agrees.

* * *

He's still running high when they get herded back to their rooms for the night, reminded that sleep isn't optional and that this is only the first game. He and Ebs jostle each other comfortably in the bathroom, brushing their teeth and checking out the scrapes and bruises of the night. Taylor's got a nasty bruise on his ribs from a hit in the third, and he pokes it curiously for a while, trying to figure out how much he'll need to tape it up before the next game.

"You're just making it worse," Ebs says, swatting Taylor's hand away. "Masochist."

Taylor pokes Ebs's bruised shoulder instead and gets uncerimoniously wrestled out of the bathroom and shoved onto his bed for the effort. Ebs is strong for a little dude.

* * *

"Sixteen-nothing," he says into the dark, after the bed check's over with and they're supposed to be asleep.

"Go to sleep, Hallsy," Ebs says from the other bed, but Taylor can hear the smile in his voice.

* * *

Practice the next day is a few drills to keep their accuracy up, and then they divide everyone up and let them scrimmage for the rest of it as a reward for their win the day before. Taylor and Ebs set up Kadri for their team's winner, a beautiful tic-tac-toe play that makes Pietrangelo flip them off when the coaches aren't looking. Taylor just laughs and pats the top of Eberle's helmet fondly.

* * *

They make it up to Alex by setting him up for a powerplay goal against Switzerland. It's Taylor's only point of the night--the Swiss seem to be in his face every time he gets the puck--but Ebs makes up for Taylor's limited success by getting five points.

"What, no assist on Kadri's goal?" Taylor teases him as they wrestle their skates off. "You could have been six-for-six. Slacker."

"I wanted to share some of the glory," Ebs says. "I mean, you guys can't rely on me for everything."

Nazem throws his sock at Jordan from across the room.

* * *

Taylor's happy about his team's awesome start, but he kinda wishes he'd managed a goal somewhere in the twenty-fucking-two that they've combined to score. Three assists are great, they are, but it's frustrating to put the puck at the net and watch everything get blocked or swatted away.

Elly reads his expression on the bus back to the hotel accurately and cuffs him on the side of the head. "You'll score," he says. "You always do."

"Of course I will," Taylor says, shouldering him back. "I'm just waiting for the best moment to shine."

"Hat trick in the final, right?" Elly says, laughing.

"Exactly."

* * *

Ebs flops down across Taylor's bed when they get back to the hotel. SportsCentre is on in the background, keeping them updated about the CFL's offseason moves, but Jordan's not really watching it so much as watching Taylor.

"Thanks for being a distraction," he says.

"Sorry?" Taylor says, confused. All he's doing is getting ready for bed, but maybe Ebs is one of those guys who can't watch TV if someone's moving in the room. He's pretty sure that nothing about him is distracting, though. He's all limbs and awkwardness right now, like a baby deer or something. Maybe that's why he's not scoring. Ebs isn't awkward at all, just nice and compact.

"What?" Ebs says, blinking at him. "No, like, in the game. They were so determined to stop you from scoring that they ignored the rest of us."

"Oh," Taylor says, pulling his t-shirt on and looking at Ebs, who looks quickly back at the TV. "You're welcome, I guess."

Ebs laughs. Taylor goes and hops onto the bed behind him, watching the talking heads on the screen ramble about something related to basketball.

"Seriously, though," Ebs says, sitting up and coming to sit next to Taylor at the headboard. "You're making great shots out there."

"Thanks," Taylor says. "I know I am. You can keep giving me praise, though, if you want."

Ebs laughs and elbows him in the side. "I'm an assitant captain," he says, mock-seriously. "I'm supposed to mentor you kids."

"Mentor my balls," Taylor tells him.

"If they haven't dropped yet, that's something only a doctor can help with," Jordan says, keeping a straight face right up until the point that Taylor smacks him with a pillow.

* * *

Taylor gets a hat trick the next game.

* * *

"Told you," Elly says, slinging a sweaty arm across Taylor's shoulders. Taylor laughs and swats at him.

"Fuck off, you smell disgusting," he says.

"Is that any way to treat the guy who set you up to score?" Elly asks, pouting.

"Oh, sorry, would you like me to sing your praises?" Taylor asks, laughing. "Because only one of us has a hat trick this tourny and it sure as hell isn't you."

"Don't sing _anything_ , Hallsy, some of us want to keep our eardrums intact," Nemo says, making a face of mock-horror.

"That bad?" Hammy asks.

"That bad," Nemo says.

"You all wish you were as great as me," Taylor says, laughing.

* * *

SportsCentre and lounging on Taylor's bed is apparenty a thing now. He's fine with that--he and Ebs cheer for the same CFL team, at least, and they both agree not to watch anything about juniors. They're there, they don't need to relive it through videos, and Taylor for one can't stand watching himself talk on TV.

He feels good. Yeah, they didn't get a shutout tonight, and yeah, they have to face the States in a couple of days, but he broke through and scored, and kept scoring, and he feels good.

"Oh, stop looking so pleased with yourself," Ebs says, rolling his eyes. "You're not the first guy to get a hat trick, you know."

Taylor ignores him, but he does make sure to turn up the TV when they talk about the Flames-Oilers game the night before.

"I hope you get drafted to the Oilers, Flames-boy," Ebs says.

"Why, can't live without me?" Taylor asks, grinning.

Ebs smacks him with a pillow. "No, just to watch you realize that Flames fans are gonna hate you," he says.

"We'd be awesome together, though," Taylor says, ignoring Ebs's response. "We could get the Cup back."

Jordan snorts. "Yeah, maybe with a complete rebuild," he says. "New defense, new goaltending, a new coach."

"Nah," Taylor says, rolling on his side to look at Jordan. "Just you and me, you know we could do it."

Jordan looks at him with his unfairly blue eyes and Taylor feels his cheeks get warm under the scrutiny. He's not serious, not really, but when he thinks about it, playing with Ebs on his other wing sounds like a pretty awesome future. Maybe they couldn't get the Cup alone, but there aren't many guys Taylor would rather have with him on the journey. Ebs is the kind of teammate that Taylor loves to have: hard to play against and determined to win.

"Yeah," Jordan says, finally. "We could."

* * *

There's no more scrimmages or light drills at practice now. They've beat the easy teams. Now comes the hard part--the States, and then the elimination rounds. There's a lot on the line, and the coaches work them hard to get them ready. By the end of practice, Taylor feels like he's going to be seeing game plans and American replays every time he closes his eyes, but he's as ready as he'll ever be.

* * *

"What's with you and Eberle?" Henrique asks, appearing behind Taylor suddenly as the team gathers for the bus ride over to the arena. Taylor jumps a little and looks around for Ebs to see what Henrique is talking about. Ebs is standing with Teubert and Kadri, looking sleepy. Then again, he usually looks sleepy.

"What?" Taylor asks. He's definitely not awake enough for confusing conversations.

"You're, like, besties now," Henrique says. "You're not planning on deserting us for the W, are you?"

"Nope," Taylor says, rolling his eyes. "We're roommates, you idiot. And I'm pretty sure only little girls say 'besties'."

"Whatever, Hallsy, you're totally gay for the dude. It's okay, though. I'm not going to judge." Henrique gives him a shit-eating grin.

"You're totally gay for Stevie Y," Taylor says. It doesn't really work as a comeback, though, as Adam just shrugs and says, "well, _yeah_."

"Go suck his dick and leave me alone, then," Taylor suggests, elbowing Henrique. "It's too early for your...you."

"Better go grab the seat next to your boyfriend before someone else does," Henrique says, but he's laughing as he walks away.

* * *

Taylor barely breathes during the shootout. He hates them--they're stupid, they're so stupid, and nothing feels as bad as sitting on the bench, watching your teammate face down a goalie on his own with the outcome of the game riding on his back.

Ebs is up first. Taylor chews his mouthguard and doesn't even notice, breath held and shoulders tense, watching as Ebs skates down the ice towards the puck. Forehand, backhand, forehand, backhand, forehand--and Campell goes down, just enough that Ebs can flip it in backhanded.

Ebs doesn't even get halfway through the bench before he just launches himself up onto it, guys grabbing at him joyfully, Taylor right there in the middle of it.

Kadri scores. Kozun scores.

Schroeder doesn't.

* * *

The anthem has never sounded more beautiful than it does that night.

* * *

"Hey, player of the game, quit leaving your wet towels right in front of the door," Taylor says, stepping out of the bathroom. He'd showered at the rink, but not as well as he'd have liked; the media had been time-consuming.

"Bite me, hat trick," Eberle says. He's sprawled across Taylor's bed in sleep pants, channel-surfing past all the coverage of the game.

Taylor stops just past the door and watches him for a minute, reliving the beautiful shootout goal in his head.

"What?" Ebs asks, looking up at him. "Why're you staring?"

Taylor shakes his head and looks away, flushing a little. Staring at his shirtless roommate is probably something he should avoid doing if he wants to avoid further gay jokes. Not that he is gay for Ebs or anything--well, maybe he is, a little, but it's really more that he's kinda gay for his stick-handling.

Which doesn't really sound better.

When he looks up again, Ebs is still looking at him. Taylor finishes drying his hair and throws his towel back into the bathroom and then stops, not sure what he's doing. He feels restless--the game had been intense and he can still feel it under his skin, prickling hot. If the way Ebs is flipping through the channels for the fourth or fifth time and not really looking at any of them is any indication, he feels the same.

"Stop creeping on me and come here," Jordan says, shifting over to give Taylor part of the bed back.

"Thanks for inviting me to my own bed," Taylor says, but he walks over and curls up on his spot anyway.

"Well, I could walk across the room and invite you to my bed if you really feel that'd be more proper," Ebs says, laughing.

"If Henny were here he'd be calling you gay for that," Taylor says. Ebs looks startled and then makes a weird face.

"Oh," he says, and opens his mouth, then closes it again. He looks kind of uncomfortable and Taylor regrets saying anything.

"I mean--he's a jerk. He wouldn't be serious," he says. "Not that there's--"

"I get it," Ebs says, but he's still kind of quiet for the rest of the night and Taylor doesn't know what to say to fix it. He's not even sure which thing he said was the wrong thing. It sucks.

* * *

Taylor's parents take him out for lunch the next day, taking advantage of the fact that there's a couple of days until his next game. It's been a while since he's seen them for more than a few minutes here and there, and he spends most of the meal talking about the team and the games and how awesome it felt to get a hat trick.

"We're so proud of you," his mom tells him at the end of the meal, hugging him. "Remember to get enough sleep, though."

"I do," he says. "Ebs is really strict about bedtime."

"That's good," his mom says. "I'll make sure to thank his mother for that."

"Great," Taylor says. "He's already annoyed at me, I'm sure that'll make it worse."

His mom frowns. "Why is he annoyed at you?"

There's not really a good way to answer that. Taylor eventually says, "I think I said something that he took the wrong way."

"So apologise," his mom says, shaking her head at him.

"I will," he says.

She hugs him again.

* * *

"Sorry," he says to Ebs that night. Things have been fine between them, but--it still feels off, like there's something missing. "I didn't mean it about the gay thing."

"It's fine," Ebs says. Taylor doesn't believe him.

"I'm just--he's been teasing me about being kinda gay for you," Taylor says, which is probably the wrong thing to say, but it's out there now. He's bad at speaking without thinking when it isn't about hockey.

"Well, that sucks for you," Ebs says.

Taylor shrugs, not looking at him. "I don't really care," he says. "You're pretty awesome. There are worse people to be gay for."

There's a long silence and Taylor realizes he'd kind of maybe just said he was gay for Ebs. That may not have been the best idea. He tries to figure out whether it's too late to play it off as a joke.

"Yeah, well, you're okay yourself," Ebs says, and there's the warmth in his voice that Taylor has just realized was missing.

They're okay, he decides, and looks back up and grins when he sees Ebs's face.

* * *

The weird part of elimination rounds is that they go into the next practice without knowing who they'll be playing the next day. Everyone pretty much assumes that it's going to be Russia, but suddenly it's Switzerland.

"Huh," Taylor says.

"At least we've played them once already," Schenner says, but he makes sure he isn't loud enough that the coaches can hear him.

* * *

He can't sit still that night. It's not like the earlier games didn't mean anything, but--this one is life-or-death, this one _matters_. He channel surfs for a while, then turns off the TV and does some stretching, and turns it back on when that doesn't help. If he were at home, he'd jerk off, but Ebs is wandering around and Taylor's pretty sure that getting another shower would be a little obvious.

"Stop fidgeting," Ebs says, dropping onto the bed next to him and grabbing the remote to flick off the TV. "We'll be fine. We'll be awesome."

"I know," Taylor says. He rolls over and realizes he's practically on top of Ebs. From here, he can see the spot where Ebs's mouth is still healing. Without thinking, he reaches out and presses his fingertip against the little ridge. Ebs freezes.

"Shit, sorry," Taylor says, pulling his finger away. "I was just--"

But Ebs doesn't let him finish his sentence, because he's pressing his mouth against Taylor's.

Taylor doesn't even register it as a kiss for a few seconds. He thinks, oh, Ebs's mouth, and then something that's not so much words as impressions: soft, rough, warm.

And then Taylor thinks, Ebs is kissing me, just in time for Jordan to pull away.

"Sorry, shit, sorry, I shouldn't have--" Ebs says, red and scrambling and Taylor doesn't even know what he's doing but he pulls Ebs back towards him and kisses him until Ebs stops freaking out and starts kissing back.

It's not a great kiss. It's not even really a good kiss. They're both too nervous, scared to touch each other in case that breaks the moment somehow. Taylor's mind is whirling, trying to figure out what he's doing, what they're doing, why, and he's not good at this like he is with hockey but he knows enough to know that he wants this.

"Yeah?" Ebs says, when they break apart again. He looks like Taylor feels, worry and want and hope written easy to read across his face.

"Yeah," Taylor says, and the way that Ebs smiles at him makes him laugh with sheer joy.

* * *

All Taylor can think as he watches the puck go in for the sixth Canadian goal the next night is that they're going to the medal game.

All he can think after the media scrum is that if he never hears someone asking him about breaking the record for gold medals again it'll still be too soon.

* * *

They're tangled together in Taylor's bed, mouths pressed sloppily together, hands sliding across skin, and Taylor isn't thinking anything at all.

* * *

Under two minutes.

Eberle scores.

* * *

"We can do this," someone says, the moment before overtime starts.

They can't.

* * *

Silver feels worse than anything Taylor can remember feeling before. He takes off his medal as soon as he gets back to the room, throwing it in his duffel and dumping his suit jacket on top of it. He strips methodically but doesn't bother hanging anything up. What's the point? They lost.

He can't turn on the TV, can't check his phone, just-- _can't_. He knows what he'll see: their loss, people trying to make him feel better, and none of it will make any difference.

Ebs shows up a few minutes later. He looks haunted, shoulders tense and eyes drained of life, and somehow that hits Taylor harder than anything else. He can't say anything, though. There's nothing to say. There's nothing that will make this hurt any less.

He still watches Ebs, though, as he gets changed, watches as Ebs looks for a long time at his medal and puts it away, treats it like something he'll want someday, watches as Ebs disappears into the bathroom and comes out with damp hair and a damp face and the same blank look.

Ebs sits on his bed and Taylor thinks, that's wrong. Ebs never sits on his own bed. He always sits on Taylor's bed. That's how this works.

Taylor slides off his bed and walks over, stopping just short of actually climbing onto Ebs's bed. He doesn't know what he's doing. He just wants something to break--him, them, the silence, _something_. Ebs looks up at him and they stare at each other, mapping out the exhaustion and disappointment on each other's faces.

"C'mere," Ebs says, finally. His voice sounds too loud and too tight, but Taylor is glad just to hear it.

He curls up next to Ebs, not touching him, but close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him, and listens to him breathe. Ebs reaches out one hand and slides it along Taylor's shoulder, up his neck, into his hair, and Taylor closes his eyes and rolls over and presses his face into Jordan's shoulder.

"This sucks," he says, breath reflecting off Ebs's skin.

"It does," Jordan says. "Sleep here."

It's not a question, but Taylor nods anyway.

* * *

When Taylor wakes up, it's 2 a.m. The room is dark, but they'd never closed the curtains properly. Jordan's a warm, solid presence against Taylor's back and he soaks it in, takes comfort in the way Jordan's breaths come steady and even.

Things go on, he thinks. Hockey goes on. He'll go home and get back on the ice and the sting of this loss won't even go away, but it'll be less and less of his life, sharing space with all the other losses--and all the wins. Taylor knows he'll win, knows he'll make it. He's got the skills. More importantly, he _wants_ to make it. There's nothing he wants more than to step onto the ice in an NHL jersey, except one thing, and that's lifting the Cup.

He thinks back to the conversation about the Oilers drafting him, and thinks, yeah, maybe that could work. He feels like he's betraying the Flames even as he tries to picture himself in an Oilers jersey, but when he thinks of himself and Ebs, next to each other in the lineup, the betrayal feels pretty minor compared to the feeling of _right_.

Behind him, Ebs makes a soft noise and then says, "Hallsy?" His voice is sleep-rough.

"Ebby," Taylor says. He rolls over and Ebs is right there, so Taylor kisses him.

They haven't talked about this, not in the days they've been doing it, and Taylor's not sure it's still okay now that the tournament's over. Ebs kisses him back, though, soft and sleepy and easy, and something in Taylor opens back up, something that had shut down when the goal light had gone off.

They make out for a while, and Taylor expects to maybe get sleepy again but no, he's waking up. Jordan's hands slide down his sides and Taylor gasps when Ebs bites his lip. It goes straight to Taylor's dick, which has been half-hard for a while now, and he moans and presses up against Ebs.

"Oh, fuck," he says, and Ebs groans and rolls them so that he's on top, pinning Taylor to the bed.

"Hallsy, I want," he says, fingers pressing hard into Taylor's hips. He can't finish his sentence because Taylor can't help but kiss him again, hot and messy. This feels _real_ in a way nothing else does, every bruise and every gasp and every shift of their hips against each other helping push the frustration and anger away. Taylor licks at Jordan's jaw and presses a bite to his neck, feeling the throb of blood hot beneath the surface. He's hard and needy, hips arching up against Ebs, who groans and thrusts back down.

Ebs's hands slip to Taylor's waistband and stop. Taylor feels giddy and a little nervous, even though this isn't a new experience, exactly. It feels new, though. It's Ebs.

"Yeah?" Ebs asks.

Taylor bites his lip and nods and fuck, _fuck_ , Ebs is pushing his pyjama pants down and Taylor hitches up helplessly into the soft skin of Ebs's stomach.

Ebs gets a hand between them and grips Taylor, a little too hard and a little awkward, but it feels so good that Taylor just drops his head back and whines and rides it out, hips moving restlessly and fingers clutching at Jordan's shoulders. He's not going to last and he doesn't care, not when Ebs is touching him like this, not when Ebs's eyes are dark blue and intense and not when Ebs is kissing him desperately and messily, mouth hot against Taylor's lips. He comes like that, slick and messy across both of them, and Jordan groans and shoves his own pants down before Taylor's even finished.

He can't move enough to help Ebs out but he watches as Jordan jerks himself off, movements sharp and rhythmless, and thinks that it's pretty much the hottest thing he's ever seen. His dick twitches weakly when Ebs comes, face screwed up and breath shortened, and he almost wonders if there's time for another round.

The exhaustion kicks in as soon as he finishes coming down, though, and he yawns as Jordan flops down beside him. They're both kind of gross and sticky and Taylor doesn't know what to do here--should he say something, should he kiss Ebs, what do they do now so that this isn't awkward?

Ebs answers his questions by rolling over and kissing him, sweet and soft, and Taylor smiles at him and knows that everything's going to be fine.

* * *

They wake up to the sound of the alarm. Taylor groans and buries his face in Ebs's shoulder, not wanting to leave the protection of their room and this bed. Outside are people who will try to talk to him, try to make it better, when there's nothing they can do, and Taylor doesn't feel like giving them the nice, polite answers.

In here is Jordan. Taylor knows which of these options he'd prefer.

It's not easy, but they drag themselves out of bed and finish packing. Taylor takes his suit out of his bag and hangs it up neatly again, brushing out the wrinkles as much as he can. His medal glints at him and he looks at it for a long time before picking it up and sliding it on. The metal is cold against his skin and the memory stings, but it's his and he earned it and someday he'll be proud of it.

* * *

They say goodbye in public down in the lobby, Ebs and Teubert hugging everyone, fist bumps and high fives. If Ebs lingers a few seconds longer looking at Taylor, no one's watching enough to notice. It's not really their goodbye, anyway. That had happened earlier, in the room, quick kisses and lingering touches and promises to stay friends, to keep in touch, to not let this thing between them fade and die.

"Come to Edmonton," Ebs says, quietly, and Taylor's mouth quirks up in a smile before he can stop it.

"If they want me," he says. It's nearly a promise.

Ebs watches him for a minute and then turns and walks away.

* * *

The rest of the season goes like this: the Spitfires win, and win some more, and come out on top of their conference. Taylor ties for the most points scored with Tyler Seguin, a name he suspects he'll be hearing a lot of in the future.

The Pats don't make the playoffs. Taylor and Ebs send a lot of texts.

They sweep the Otters. They sweep the Whalers. They go seven full games with the Rangers, but they come out on top.

They sweep the Colts and take home the championship. Taylor leads the league in playoff scoring.

They go to the Memorial Cup. They beat the Wheat Kings, they beat the Hitmen, they beat the Wildcats, and then they beat the Wheat Kings again and Taylor gets to hoist the Memorial Cup for the second year in a row.

It feels good.

* * *

Taylor is sitting in a room with the Oilers staff.

"You played with Jordan Eberle at World Juniors this year," one of them says. "How did that work out for you?"

Taylor smiles. "It was great," he says. "We didn't win, which sucked, but Ebs is amazing. He's got great work ethic and he did a great job keeping everyone on track. I'd love to play on a team with him again."


End file.
